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Tuesday, March 7, 2017

“I am,” I told her, “excessively busy. So don’t even bother
asking me to be in my blog today….”

“What!” cried Lady. “I don’t want to be in your stupid blog.
And you’re no more busy than usual!”

“Well, it feels like I am,” I told her. “After all, I’m personally
in charge, now, of some 400 years of musical history, and what happens if I
flub it up?”

“Is there any reason to think you might?”

“I feel that I have to do something about the Grosse Fugue,
and that has me completely stopped.”

“And what’s wrong with the Grosse Fugue?”

“Well, you know that Beethoven went deaf, right?”

“Well, we all know that!”

“So the deafer he got, the weirder his music got. And
finally, he wrote a string quartet, and one of the movements was this fugue.
And since the internet is shunning this table, I can’t get the full story, but
it went something like this: everybody hated it. So Beethoven wrote another
movement, to replace, and that was nice. But then he turned around and
published the fugue as a stand alone piece. And now, most people who play the
quartet use the original, with the fugue. But you also very frequently hear the
fugue all by itself. So it’s definitely a Catch-22.”

“Is it that bad?”

“Frankly, yes. It’s extremely dissonant, extremely complex,
and—unfortunately—an absolute masterpiece. It’s a sort of musical psychosis.
It’s something that only Hannibal Lector could like. It is, in fact, absolutely
fascinating, in a thoroughly repellent way. Music for Auschwitz? This would be
the top hit!”

“Well, skip it, then….”

“I’m considering it,” I told her. “And then again, some part
of me needs to incorporate it. After all, not all music needs to be beautiful,
as odd as that sounds. And the Grosse Fugue is sort of like a hurricane, but
instead of rain, you have razor blades. Or maybe it’s what a string quartet
would sound like, if you replaced the instrument with jackals.”

“Wonderful,” said Lady. “Wow—this blog post will set the
world on fire….”

“Well, I just listened to it again,” I told her. “And the
good news is that it’s only fifteen minutes.”

“And the bad news?”

“It feels like fifteen hours….”

“It can’t be that bad…”

“I should probably listen to it once a day for a month or
so, and then I’d get it,” I told her. “Here’s the deal. A regular fugue will
have one theme, which will be passed around like a Frisbee among the players.
But when the player doesn’t have the theme—or the Frisbee—then he or she
plays some music that is related to the theme. But Beethoven decided to go one
better—which is why he created a double fugue. So now we have two fugues going
on at the same time.”

“Oh, dear….”

“It’s easy to understand if you listen to Ernst Toch’s
Geographical Fugue,” I told her. “And of course you’ll never hear the word
‘Trinidad’ without smiling. Anyway, the fugue, and especially a double fugue,
is really cerebral music. And even though we think of Beethoven as a passionate
composer, he was quite cerebral in his way. As well, of course, as
psychopathic….”

“Still don’t think you should include it,” said Lady. “Who
needs ugly music?”

“It was an ugly time of my life,” I told her. “Remember?
Maybe pain is a kind of fugue. After all, the same themes kept recurring, day
after day and week after week. I was lying in bed, and dreading the moment when
I had to turn. Or I was taking pain medicines—though never, thank God,
opiates—and feeling a slight bit of relief. Each day was essentially the same,
with only minor variations.”

“I remember seeing you during those days,” said Lady. “You
looked haunted, and you moved like an old man. You could tell how much it
hurt….”

“It was the endless repetition,” I told her. “Do you
remember how Santana was feeding me papaya smoothies? He had just taken over
the café, and I could see in his face the worry. So I kept on coming into the
café, and he must have known that I was a regular. So each day, he’d make me a
smoothie, which I didn’t much like. But there it was—if it really could help,
who was I to say no? Oh, and most of the time he didn’t charge me.”

“Well, what went around came around,” said Lady. “Because
now the café is packed….”

“The worst day came,” I told her, “at pretty much the end of
the experience. Because even though I didn’t need surgery, well, I wasn’t sure.
I knew that if the pain continued, somebody at some point would suggest it. And
of course, if it’s a choice between constant pain and getting relief through
surgery, I’d have to do it. So one day Craig came in, and said something like,
‘Well, they tell me you’re going to have surgery,’ and I lost it. So there I
was, sobbing in the Sala Poética and
that’s when David found me….”

David—a guy from Mexico who is, in fact, stuck in Mexico.
And nobody knows when he will get out or get back. But there he was, and there
I was, and suddenly I was sobbing in his arms and telling him my entire life
story.

All right—not the entire story. Just, in fact, the painful
stuff, which in the mood I was in was pretty much everything.

“Pain is so exhausting,” said Lady.

“So I’m sobbing away, and telling David that my whole life
has been pain, pain, pain and nothing but pain, pain pain. And it started when
I was a kid…”

“Well, at least you didn’t go back to harsh fetal
environments,” said Lady. “Or did you?”

“I was a weird kid, and most it was because I was gay.
Except that I didn’t know I was gay, because nobody talked about being gay. So
it was confusing. And then I hated sports but loved music, so I got to be a
cellist. And then that got all cocked up, because I had a big issue with
one of my teachers….”

“Dear me, you were going far back.”

“I had a unified theory of my life, which actually was very
simple. The theme, it turned out, was pain, since that’s what I encountered at
every turn. So I was explaining that to David, and crying, and lying on David’s
lap—as much as a 6 foot three inch man can lie in a five foot something guy’s
lap. But it didn’t much matter,because
I was completely incoherent, and all David could do was sit there and stroke my
head. Oh, and say, ‘yes, yes,’ or ‘no, no,’ or whatever it was he said.”

“Oh dear….”

“OK—so it wasn’t quite in the job description, but at least
Nico came by and saw that I was in complete meltdown. Which was nice, since
David was supposed to be making the little houses for you to paint. But there I
was, so what could Nico or David do? And then, of course, I progressed into my
college years, and guess what?”

“You’re startlingly perceptive,” I told her. “One might even
say sagacious. Yes, I detailed all of the pain, the loneliness, the uncertainty
of coming out in the early to mid 70’s. I did everything but tell him about
hanging out in the sixth floor men’s room of Memorial Library….”

“Is this information I really need to have?”

“Well, I’m sobbing away, and then I start to shake, and I
realize that I’m starting a panic attack. So that’s just wonderful, since I now
have covered absolutely every angle. Physically, I’m a complete wreck.
Emotionally, I’m in a total free fall. Socially…”

“So then this beautiful little kid comes in—you know, the
one who thought he was straight, but everybody knew he was gay?”

“Well, we didn’t really know,” said Lady. “Although
nobody would have fainted away with surprise if it had turned out that he was.
And whatever happened to him, by the way? Did he go into the Marines after
all?”

“Well, we never saw him again, after that day. Which somehow
doesn’t surprise me. Anyway, David turned me over to the beautiful gay /
non-gay guy, and that was just terrific, since I was in a full-blown panic, and
could tell the new guy all about my life, from the beginning! And by the way,
did I mention….”

“Pain,” said Lady. “Yes, perhaps you did….”

“So we’re back to my childhood days, and the beautiful man
is stroking me just like David. And though David is OK-looking…”

“Dear me,” said Lady, “and you were lying on the couches in
the Sala?”

“Nothing happened,” I told her. “It isn’t that kind
of a story. But then, guess what?”

“The beautiful man had to go into the Marines?”

“Or somewhere. So I’m still crying and explaining to people
that my life—have I told you this?”

“And this was in working hours?”

“Of course! Look—what do people expect in a poetry work
area? Normal, well-adjusted people? Of course not. You know, what Jill Johnston
used to call nice normal fucked-up people. Poets, in short….”

“So what happened?”

“Well, the Marine or the pre-Marine or maybe the
proto-Marine had somewhere else to go, and it was at that point that I decided
I was hungry. So since the neo-Marine was clearly about to bolt, I went into
the café, and asked for Santana. And he, bless his heart, knew just what to
do!”

“Let me guess…”

“Yup, he put me at the very back of the café, where I was
away from anyone else. And then he gave me the smoothie with about three
tablespoons of sugar in it.”

“Wonderful,” said Lady, “a sugar-fueled emotional
breakdown.”

“Oh, and he offered to drive me to the hospital, if I needed
it. Which I probably did, but certainly didn’t want. Anyway, I ate and my sugar
rebounded, and then guess what?”

“This story cannot go on….”

“It does. Because now my stomach erupted, which wasn’t
surprising, since I hadn’t taken my acid reducer. So I’m in a panic, my blood
sugar is iffy, my stomach is revolting—in every sense of the word—and I have to
go to the pharmacy. But how can I? Remember the panic attack? Remember that I’m
crying and shaking? So then I realize: I need Klonopin! And that’s when I look
around, and I see Carlos!”

Carlos—the pirate poet. When the poetry is slow, he dresses
up as a pirate, and gets people to give him money in exchange for a photo. And
this money-making enterprise attracted the evil and small mind of a ranger up
at the fort. So Carlos got arrested, and ended up in the hoosegow, still clad
in his pirate outfit. It completely startled all of the drunks….

Anyway, Carlos and I head for the pharmacy, where we can get
the acid reducer but not the Klonopin. So that’s when I decided to take
Benadryl, instead, to see if it would at least make me sleepy.

“And did it?”

“Sort of,” I told her. “At least it took the edge off the
panic. Anyway…”

Life, Death and Iguanas

Life, Death…and Iguanas?Yes, that’s the title of an e-book available on Amazon / Kindle. It’s the story of a woman who took charge of her death, just as she had her life. Of a family that split, and then united. Of a man who decided to live. Oh, and there’s some great stuff about iguanas….Read the first chapter by clicking here!